


The Collapse

by Sed



Series: Lionfang Week 2020 [6]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Claustrophobia, Forehead Touching, M/M, Panic Attacks, Touching, Trapped, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25514083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sed/pseuds/Sed
Summary: Lionfang Week Day 6 - StrengthIf he relented, even for a second, the mound of debris on top of them would slowly crush the air from both their bodies. It was not a pleasant way to die, and Varok had no intention of allowing it to happen.
Relationships: Varok Saurfang/Anduin Wrynn
Series: Lionfang Week 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837471
Comments: 14
Kudos: 61
Collections: Lionfang Prompt Week





	The Collapse

**Author's Note:**

> This was the story I was really excited to get to this week, and I might have had it done last night, but it turned out way longer than I anticipated. I can't say I have any regrets.

Anduin heard the crunch of stone as Saurfang’s fist hit the wall of the cell, and he felt the bits of debris that tumbled down over his shoulder, but he ignored both. His attention was on the orc who had abruptly stormed off and retreated to the far end of the small space, turning his back on Anduin as though that would also shut out the words he had spoken, and the truth of them.

“Saurfang—”

But Anduin never had a chance to say more; he was cut off by a sound like the approaching Deeprun Tram. A deep, ominous rumbling all around them, vibrating through the air and warning of something terrible to come. Fear struck him in the instant before he realized what was happening, and he looked up to meet Saurfang’s eyes. They were as wide as his own, and filled with knowledge that Anduin himself still desperately wished to deny.

In the final seconds before the ceiling of the Stockade collapsed, Anduin was aware of only two things: Saurfang moving swiftly toward him, and the certainty that he was about to die.

It was a strangely familiar feeling.

  
He woke to the grit of rock dust in his throat, and a pain in his side. Anduin opened his eyes and found only darkness. For just a moment he thought he must be dreaming, lying in his own bed in Stormwind Keep, and it was the middle of the night. But then something shifted over him, and he heard the scrape of debris as it resettled around him. That was when the panic began.

“ _No_ , _no_ ,” he whimpered, pleaded, trying to crawl on his back away from the debris that surrounded him, finding it was everywhere. He couldn’t breathe. His body was trapped, perhaps even damaged. Was the lack of pain a good thing, or the sign of something far, far worse? What had been shattered this time? Where was he broken? He gasped and tried to shift his legs, if only to be certain he _could_ move them, but they wouldn’t budge. His panicked pleading became a kind of wheezing, hysterical sound as he scrabbled at the rocks in a blind frenzy. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t _breathe_.

“Stop moving,” a voice said. It was so close—and so familiar. Anduin froze. His eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness, and enough light filtered in through the pile of debris on top of him for Anduin to make out the unmistakable sight of long, sharp teeth, and a ring through a blunted nose. He heard a snort, and his body went cold in terror.

_The smell of the dust in his nose, filling his lungs; the scent his own blood heavy and hot in the air around him; and the cold, unforgiving stone of the terrace. Garrosh looming over him, triumphant, full of hate. Every inch of him screamed in agony, and he struggled to remain conscious, terrified of what Garrosh would do if he closed his eyes. There was so much pain. So much weight. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He was going to die. Garrosh had come to finish him off, and he was too broken to defend himself. He was going to die, and he couldn’t **breathe** … _

* * *

Anduin Wrynn was thrashing, growling like a feral animal within his silly armor. The thick plate had protected the parts of him that Varok had not been able to cover, but now it left him trapped, and some madness had overtaken him that turned the armor into his enemy. He lashed out, throwing clumsy punches that connected with rock as often as they hit Varok himself, and clawing at whatever he could reach with fingers blunted by leather gloves.

“Stop it!” Varok roared. He could not move his own arms to pin the human in place and stop his wild flailing. If he relented, even for a second, the mound of debris on top of them would slowly crush the air from both their bodies. It was not a pleasant way to die, and Varok had no intention of allowing it to happen. “Control yourself!”

But Anduin was beyond his reach, lost somewhere Varok had never been. All the sound he seemed able to make was a choked, desperate gasp, so raspy and thin that it hurt Varok’s own throat to hear it. He felt the small body below his start to shake, the tremors strong enough that it was clear even through the young human’s armor. The hands that clawed and pushed at Varok were trembling even more than the rest of him was.

“Don’t! Please wait!” Anduin wheezed. “Garrosh, please!”

Garrosh? But why? Why would he think—

Varok suddenly felt as though the air had been punched from his lungs. He remembered Kun-Lai, and the Temple of the White Tiger. The young king—still just a prince at the time—testifying at the trial of Garrosh Hellscream. He remembered the events shown by the Vision of Time: Anduin Wrynn, strong and courageous despite his small size, despite the terrible enemy he faced. And then moments later, lying broken and bleeding upon the terrace.

 _“At least the human prince is dead,”_ Garrosh had said in the vision.

He had shattered the Divine Bell, raining the heavy shards of the ancient weapon down on the vulnerable young human, who had no armor to defend himself, nor hope of stopping the attack and saving himself from his fate. Anduin had almost died at the hands of an orc, buried beneath a pile of rubble not unlike the one that currently threatened to crush them.

“I am not Garrosh!” he tried to shout over the king’s panic. “Look at me!”

But it didn’t work. Nothing he said seemed able to break through the thick fog of fear that had enveloped Anduin like a smothering blanket, and trying only seemed to worsen the reaction. Nor could he move his arms to stop Anduin’s desperate thrashing. Worst of all, if he kept going as he was, Varok feared that Anduin might actually cause enough damage to make him lose his battle against the rubble of the Stockade.

There was one option left to him. If force wouldn’t work, there was a possibility being gentle might. It could also send Anduin even deeper into his panic. Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out. Doing nothing simply wasn’t an option.

Varok was on his hands and knees over Anduin, his own face mere inches from the young king’s. He bent his neck to gently press his forehead to Anduin’s, and waited.

The hands that had been battering him continued to push, and the gasping pleas had not ceased, but Varok persisted. He kept his voice low and hopefully soothing, speaking to Anduin as he would a frightened animal. “You’re safe,” he said. “I will not hurt you. You have my word. Please, calm down.” He stopped shy of begging. Over and over again he repeated the same reassurances, maintaining the same steady rhythm as he spoke.

He didn’t know how long they went on like that, with Varok speaking quietly and Anduin gasping for breath beneath him. It might have been hours, but more likely it was several minutes that only felt as though they went on forever. Slowly, and with several backslides into uncontrollable panic, Anduin Wrynn settled, and seemed to come back to himself. Some part of him was still lost in those memories of what Garrosh had done, but more of him seemed to remain there with Varok with each iteration of his calming mantra.

Still, the shaking persisted. Varok kept his forehead against Anduin’s and waited for the young king to steady himself and hopefully speak.

“I feel like… like I can’t breathe…” were his first lucid words since the collapse.

Varok knew that wasn’t so; there was plenty of air, and he was kneeling over Anduin’s body, not lying atop it. His breastplate had not been crushed, nor was it so tight that it would restrict his breathing. “That is only fear,” he told him confidently. “You have to overcome it.”

Anduin shook his head. “I don’t think I can.” His voice was small and frightened, and it pierced something in Varok’s heart.

“You already have,” he replied, remembering the fear Anduin had confessed to in Kun-Lai. The uncertainty in his eyes at Lordaeron in that split second when he had looked up and seen Varok preparing to strike. He hadn’t flinched. Not then, and not in the cell, despite Varok’s best efforts to intimidate him. “You can do it again.”

Anduin was quiet for several minutes, and Varok listened as he took one deep breath after another. The trembling slowly eased, but did not subside entirely. “You saved me,” Anduin said after he had reached what Varok assumed must be the most calm he was capable of in that moment. “Again.”

“I did not save you in Lordaeron,” Varok replied. It was only the truth; he wouldn’t be lauded for deeds that were not his own.

“You simply didn’t kill me.”

He supposed, to someone like Anduin Wrynn, there might not be much of a difference. But that was not something he wished to think about at the moment, with a half-ton of rock resting uneasily atop his back.

Anduin did not press the matter, and Varok was grateful for it. Perhaps he saw the wisdom in not antagonizing the orc whose body was currently keeping him alive. When he did speak again, it was to Varok’s arm. Despite the dark, he looked away as he said, “You must think so little of me.”

“Why?”

He huffed a small gust of a laugh, full of self-loathing and shame. “You cannot pretend you didn’t see all of that, Saurfang. You were quite literally right there.”

“I saw it,” Varok confirmed, “but I see no reason why it should make me think less of you.”

He studied the shape of Anduin’s face when he turned back to look at him. “The king of Stormwind, crying and screaming in terror, trembling like a scolded pup?” He scoffed. “I would think less of me for it.”

“I am not you.” Varok waited for Anduin to argue, and when he didn’t, he asked, “You were crying?”

Anduin didn’t answer, but he swallowed and looked away again.

“Were you that frightened by what was done to you?” He carefully avoided invoking Garrosh’s name, worried that it might start Anduin panicking again.

“You were at the trial,” was all Anduin said to that. He was defensive, and it did not take a great deal of thought to understand why. He felt humiliated by what had just happened, and there was every possibility he saw Varok’s question as criticism, rather than curiosity.

“I simply wished to understand. You don’t have to answer.”

Anduin shifted under him, and it seemed to Varok that he was trying to keep as much space between his arms and Varok’s as possible. Whether it was for his own comfort or some strange attempt to be polite, there was no way to tell. Finally, he said, “I didn’t know that would happen.”

“The fear?”

A quick nod. “No one likes small spaces, of course, but… this is new. And it seems so strange, after so many years. Why should it happen now?”

“A memory like that does not abide by the rules of time,” Varok said. And he would know. He had his own ghosts to suffer, and some were older than the king lying beneath him. “You were simply unlucky.”

“On the contrary, I would say I was very lucky.”

Varok shook off the praise once more. “I could not let you die.”

Anduin hummed. “Why is that?”

That was a good question. Varok thought of Anduin’s naive defiance as he advanced on him in the cell. How he had stubbornly met his eyes and refused to shy away from his fury—as though Varok couldn’t have simply crushed the life from him right where he stood, regardless of how defiant and self-assured he pretended to be.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

* * *

It was getting hot. Anduin struggled to ignore the itch in the back of his mind, quietly urging him to plunge into another full-blown fit of panic. But the heat made the air feel close, made it difficult to breathe, and every time he filled his lungs he was acutely aware of how easily he could find himself unable to do it again.

“I wish I hadn’t worn this damned armor,” he muttered. Easier to blame the plate that had kept his arms and legs from being crushed than to think about how easily he could die if Saurfang were to lose his strength. “I wonder if I could… if I just…” He wriggled in place, trying to reach the buckle that secured his breastplate.

“You will have nowhere to put it,” Saurfang reminded him.

“I know, but I think I would feel better if I could simply move it. Or anything, really.” He stopped and went to work on his gauntlets, instead. “This will help,” he said. The confidence he tried to project was only superficial; he had no idea if freeing his hands would do any good.

“Be careful of my arms,” Saurfang warned.

Anduin unbuckled his gauntlets and dropped them on the ground somewhere beside his head. He then pulled the leather gloves from his hands and cast them somewhere into the darkness near Saurfang’s knees.

It did help. He flexed his fingers and breathed a sigh of relief. “Much better,” he said.

“I am glad one of us could find some comfort,” Saurfang replied. Anduin could hear the weary note in his voice, and it filled him with guilt. He was free to move, but Saurfang, who had risked everything to save him, was trapped as he was. Unable to do more than bend his neck.

“Would you allow me to help you?” Anduin asked. He held up his hands between them, as though that would explain everything. He knew that Saurfang could see better than he could in the dark, but that didn’t necessarily mean he understood the significance.

When Saurfang didn’t respond, Anduin said, “I could give you a blessing. It would help.” For the time being, at least. No amount of prayer would keep gravity from having its way in the end.

He firmly pushed that thought aside. _Don’t think about it,_ he reminded himself. _Don’t think about how it would feel, how it would sound, don’t—_

“Go on,” Saurfang grunted. His arms were beginning to shake. A bad sign.

Anduin took a deep breath through his nose, closed his eyes, and breathed out slowly through his mouth. He placed his hands on Saurfang, distantly aware of the heat of him, and that it wasn’t smothering like the muggy warmth in the air. His chest was firm, and his heartbeat solid and steady, but it all paled in comparison to his spirit. For a split second, as he opened himself to the Light and reached out to share that blessing with the orc kneeling over him, Anduin had no doubts that Varok Saurfang could hold up the entirety of the Stockade with nothing more than the strength of his will.

* * *

Anduin’s palms left behind an echo of pleasant, soothing warmth when they released him. Varok almost asked him to leave them where they were, but instead he bit his tongue to quell his disappointment as that feeling faded. The blessing had indeed restored him, filling him with strength. His arms no longer felt as though they might snap in two at any moment. He thanked Anduin with a duck of his head, and breathed in deep as he had not been able to since the king awoke in a panic.

“Useful,” was all he said. It was all he thought he could say without making a fool of himself. _You are incredible,_ danced on the tip of his tongue. For those few seconds that Anduin had touched him, reached into and through him, Varok had felt a distant awareness of overwhelming potential churning within his small body. Anduin was a living burst of power, all contained within the unassuming shell of a young human so far out of his element that even his armor didn’t fit him properly. What Varok had seen at Lordaeron now made perfect sense; there was no other word for it, nothing more perfect than— “Incredible.”

“What?”

“That… one blessing can do so much good,” Varok lied.

“Ah,” Anduin said quietly. He seemed embarrassed, which Varok found strangely charming. But then he shook it off and smiled as he said, “I can do more.”

With one palm up and his eyes closed, Anduin took that same deep breath as before, and then suddenly the space between them was filled with light. It bathed their faces in a golden glow, and banished the shadows that hid the shape of the debris packed around them like a tight cocoon. Varok was mesmerized by the tiny spark of sun that Anduin held in the palm of his hand. Captured by its glow.

The sound of a sudden huff of breath dragged him away from the shimmering light, and he looked down to find Anduin’s eyes, wide and full of fright, darting about like a trapped animal. _The rubble,_ Varok realized with a lurch in his gut. He could see now just how trapped they were, how close they were to death.

“Anduin,” Varok said, trying to be gentle, “put out the light.”

The hand holding the light started shaking, and it reminded Varok of a dry leaf desperately clinging to the branch. It threw the light around the tiny space, and Anduin began wheezing.

“Anduin, put out the light!” Varok shouted.

“It’s—it’s—” Anduin gasped, “Saur—I can’t—it’s—”

The light winked out, but Anduin was not calming, and so Varok tried the same gentle reassurance that had worked before. It did nothing; Anduin simply babbled over any attempt to talk him down.

“—shouldn’t—it’s—no room, no way to—”

“Anduin, you have to breathe.”

“—can’t—please—I’m sorry, Saurfang, please—”

“Tell me what you need.”

Anduin whined and threw himself against Varok like he was a fish trying to escape a net, but in the midst of his panic he managed to hiss, “Touch me.”

Varok looked around helplessly. He couldn’t use his hands without killing them both, and yet Anduin seemed to want some kind of contact.

Desperate, he pressed his forehead to Anduin’s again, hoping it would help.

“Please, just—just touch,” Anduin pleaded. His teeth were chattering, but Varok knew it wasn’t cold. The shaking had overtaken his entire body again.

With no other options left, Varok did the only thing he could think of: he nuzzled Anduin’s temple, his cheek, and finally, when there was nowhere else to go, his lips. Anduin was soft against his rough, callused skin, and his hair tickled Varok’s nose. He felt the warmth of a sigh, and Anduin’s tremors began to subside again. His breathing became steadier. As with before, he slowly returned to himself.

Varok made to pull away, but Anduin’s hands came up to hold his face. “Don’t,” he said. There was still an edge of hysteria in his voice, but it was fading. “Please, don’t stop.”

“Are you certain?”

He felt Anduin nod. “I don’t know why, but it helps.”

Varok was too stunned to know what to say. He only nodded, and continued his gentle caress. Anduin kept his hands where they were as he did so, but Varok didn’t mind; the touch of warm skin on his cheek, fingertips only just resting on his ears, felt as extraordinary to him as the blessing Anduin had bestowed. He growled quietly in his throat and traced his lips along the corner of Anduin’s jaw, drawing a gasp from the young king. For a moment he considered stopping, but then he caught a quiet whimper, fought down and stifled before it could escape, and he kept going.

“Thank you,” Anduin whispered.

* * *

It was strange to him that the kindness of an orc could bring so much comfort. Anduin closed his eyes and let himself become lost in Saurfang’s touch. He never lingered long, never allowed himself to become trapped by Anduin’s neck, or his pliant lips. But Anduin wondered if he wouldn’t have liked to. It seemed to him that Saurfang had to drag himself away whenever he nosed at the soft skin behind Anduin’s ear, and that he hesitated just a bit when their lips brushed. He thought it should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t.

And all the while, Saurfang was holding back a veritable mountain. Anduin felt perhaps he ought to focus on that, rather than how much he enjoyed the rough drag of the orc’s scarred skin on his. Or the warmth of him, so soothing against the closeness of the air.

Anduin cleared his throat. “I’m truly humbled by your strength,” he said. That sounded like the sort of compliment an orc might appreciate.

Saurfang froze, and Anduin suddenly worried that he might have been mistaken.

“What I mean is,” he rushed to explain, “I don’t think I could withstand the sort of pressure you are under. Presently. The… weight of it.” Light, so much for not making a fool of himself any more than he already had.

“Probably not,” was all Saurfang said.

Anduin nodded slowly and tried to think of something else he could say. Saurfang continued his gentle touch, and Anduin shivered when the point of a fang grazed his throat. “Hmm, that’s—” _Do not,_ he warned himself sternly. “That’s some arm you have.” _Much better._

“Arm?”

“You brought down a wall, Saurfang.”

An amused snort blew some of his hair across his face, and he wiped it away.

“It was likely to collapse anyway. I only gave it a nudge.”

“A nudge?” Anduin asked incredulously. “That was much more than a nudge.”

“Your Stockade is in sore need of repairs.”

Anduin chuckled. He settled back and closed his eyes, enjoying the orc’s soft caress, and the way it made him shiver. “I’ll say.”

* * *

Not long after Anduin’s second blessing to shore up his strength, Varok began to wonder if anyone was coming to rescue them. They would at least come for their king, surely. But it felt as though it had been hours already, and though Anduin had not lapsed into another panic, they were still on borrowed time.

Varok had stopped nuzzling Anduin shortly after their last conversation, and the young king had thanked him for his assistance, and apologized for asking so much of him. Although Varok had dismissed his gratitude yet again, a part of him was pleased to know that he had helped. Some other part of him wished that Anduin had never told him he could stop. That was a feeling he wasn’t certain he understood, or knew how to act upon, and so he had tried to focus on other things. As it turned out, that was rather easy to do.

“I’m thinking of something gray,” he said, following Anduin’s instructions.

Anduin sighed. “Is it a rock?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. That makes seven rounds you’ve picked rock as your answer.”

“This isn’t a very entertaining game.”

“Well, no. Not when you keep choosing the same object over and over. Try this: I’m thinking of something… blue.”

Varok stared at him through the darkness and did not say anything.

“Right,” Anduin said, “I admit that wasn’t exactly fair. For the record, my answer was—”

“All of Stormwind?”

Anduin laughed, and Varok basked in the sound of it. He was unexpectedly grateful that Anduin _could_ laugh after all he had been through, and all they yet faced. “Yes, all of Stormwind,” he said. “Would you like to play another round? For all the points, so long as you pick something other than _a rock_.”

Varok hummed thoughtfully. Perhaps it was the close air, or the smell of Anduin beneath him, or the memory of his touch burned into Varok’s skin. Later, assuming they survived, he might reflect on what it was that prompted him to say, “I’m thinking of something brave.”

He heard Anduin draw a breath to answer, and then hesitate. “You’re… supposed to start with a color,” he said quietly.

“Something soft.”

“Saurfang, that isn’t how you play.”

“Something bright blue, gold, and pale pink.”

Anduin was breathing hard suddenly, but it wasn’t from panic. He swallowed, and Varok felt the hunger that had been growing in him flare at the sight of his throat bobbing with it.

“It’s—” Anduin interrupted himself with a nervous laugh. “It’s no wonder you’re having so much trouble coming up with anything. Trapped in here, there isn’t much to go on. I suppose it was a silly game.”

Varok let him talk himself out, waiting for the nervous rambling to end. At last, he seemed to realize that he was simply talking in circles, and he clapped his mouth shut. “What was it you were thinking of?” he asked after a moment.

“As you said, there isn’t much to go on.”

“Of course,” Anduin said, nodding. “Nothing really to look at.”

“That isn’t true. I’m looking at you.”

If not for the steel breastplate between them, Varok thought he might have heard Anduin’s heart beating like a drum against his chest. He stared up with eyes that revealed far too much in the darkness, and licked his lips, mouth opening slowly to speak.

“Saurfang, could I…”

A sudden rumbling, much like the one before, interrupted whatever it was Anduin had been about to say for the second time that day.

“What’s happening?” Anduin shouted over the noise.

Varok couldn’t have told him. He hadn’t thought there was more of the structure above them to collapse, but it was possible he’d been wrong. All he could do was try to brace himself, and hope that it was enough.

* * *

At the first sound of another collapse, Anduin arched up to pull himself as close to Saurfang as possible. Mingled with the dust that filled the air around them was the unmistakable scent of the orc, and the worn leather of his harness. Anduin focused on that to keep calm, trying to think of a way to save their lives. He could create a shield that would protect them both, but it wouldn’t last long at that size, and then the debris that fell when it inevitably failed would kill them all the same. A shield just for himself might last longer, but it would leave Saurfang vulnerable. That simply wasn’t an option.

Then, almost as quickly as it started, the rumbling stopped. Anduin strained to hear whatever else might be coming their way, but there was only silence.

“Anduin!” came a muffled shout through the wall of debris around them. It was Genn’s voice.

Another long, low rumble, and then the next time Genn called to him it was from much closer. “They’re coming for us,” Anduin said. They must have enlisted help. A shaman or two could clear the way in no time. He had never thought he could feel so much relief.

“Coming for you,” Saurfang muttered.

Before Anduin could ask what he meant, there was a very close, very loud crash, and with a sudden burst of air the way was cleared behind his head. Another push saw the rubble lifted from Saurfang’s back, and the two of them were pulled to safety.

“Anduin, my boy, I feared you had been crushed,” Genn said. He pulled Anduin into an embrace and held him for what felt like a very long time. When Anduin stepped back he saw that Genn’s claws, normally sharp as razors, were cracked and blunted. “It was only this wing that collapsed,” Genn explained. “We’ve moved all the remaining prisoners to the other end.”

“Lucky us,” Anduin muttered. He glanced at Saurfang, but the orc’s eyes were fixed on the floor. He seemed terribly unhappy despite the rescue.

Genn turned to one of the guards who had accompanied him. “Take the king back to the keep. Make certain he’s seen by a healer.” He gave Anduin a gentle pat that said he knew his dislike of being nannied. Then he turned, and his gaze hardened. “And put _him_ in a new cell,” he said, gesturing to Saurfang.

Anduin stepped between them. “Genn, wait—”

“So,” Saurfang said, “I see the Alliance is as rotten within as it is without.” He directed a challenging glare at Genn, as though daring him to strike. “It’s little wonder you came sniffing around the ruins of Lordaeron.”

A growl crawled its way out of Genn’s throat, and he bared his fangs in warning. “Get him away from the king,” he snapped.

Anduin tried step in again, but Genn only talked over him, reassuring him that all would be well and the matter would be settled without a need for him to bother himself. And then suddenly Saurfang was in chains, and they were steering him away, taking him to another cell where he would be surrounded by the jeers and cruel words of his fellow prisoners.

That same feeling of breathless panic stole over him, and Anduin stumbled after him with a single-minded focus. He needed Saurfang. Needed him to breathe. “Please,” he said.

Saurfang turned, and Anduin stopped where he was. Throughout all the hours they were trapped together, Anduin had imagined Saurfang’s eyes looking upon him in the darkness with warmth and affection. But now he only saw a kind of sad resignation, and he realized: Saurfang knew. When he risked his life to save Anduin’s, and the whole time he struggled to hold up the walls and ceiling around them, fighting to keep Anduin calm and reassure him, he knew this would be the inevitable end if they survived. He simply wanted to get it over with.

Anduin let his arms fall to his sides and watched him go in silence. He did not allow Genn or the others to usher him out of the Stockade and back to the keep until the last sounds of Saurfang's footsteps had faded, and he’d disappeared from view.

* * *

Three weeks after the collapse of the east wing, Varok sat in a cell at the other end of the Stockade. It was much smaller than his last one, and the bed was little more than a slab of wood, chained to the wall and covered in sackcloth, but at least it had a ceiling.

“The stink of orc gets stronger every day, I reckon,” one of the other prisoners called out from further down the corridor. It was met with cheers and several colorful opinions about the Horde. As always, Varok ignored them.

Some wistful part of him wanted to believe that if he closed his eyes, he would see Anduin lying beneath him in the dark. That he could still feel his soft skin, and his even softer lips, breathing slow, warm air between them. He wasn’t certain what exactly had happened between them in that small hollow that nearly became their tomb, but it had filled his every waking thought since then. In the quiet hours of the night, when the prison was actually still, he tried to remember the sound of Anduin’s laugh.

“In my day, they’d’ve made proper use of a green-skinned savage like you,” someone shouted from another cell.

Varok sighed through his nose. The peace he sought was hard enough to find in his own memories. Doing so while surrounded by the seedy filth of Stormwind was next to impossible.

But he closed his eyes anyway, chasing that vision as he had every day since the collapse. Hoping perhaps something more interesting than the same worn-out taunts might catch the attention of his fellow prisoners, and afford him a moment to seek out a bit of the tranquility he had felt when Anduin first touched him.

The prison fell blessedly quiet around him, and Varok thanked his ancestors for one small favor at last.

“I’m thinking of something strong,” came a wonderfully familiar voice.

Varok opened his eyes to find Anduin standing before his cell. He was not wearing the silly suit of armor that looked too big on him, but simple clothes. Blue, of course.

“I am told that isn’t the proper way to play.”

Anduin tipped his forehead against the bars and smiled. “Something green, and gold, and silver.” From his pocket he produced a set of keys. “I thought you might like to sleep somewhere a little more comfortable,” he said. He unlocked the cell and opened the door. “I apologize for taking so long. There are some things even a king cannot do overnight.”

Varok rose from his cot and crossed the cell, but he did not step through the open door right away. Instead, he leaned on the bars opposite Anduin and asked, “Are you certain?”

Bright blue eyes regarded him with a kindness he had not known for some time, and once believed he might never know again. “I don’t know why,” Anduin said, breathing out a warm, slow breath that Varok could feel like soft fingertips on his skin. “But it helps.”


End file.
